Review of The Moody Blues' Days Of Future Passed

Released 1967

"Cold hearted orb that rules the night, Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white, But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion? Pinprick holes in a colourless sky,
Let inspired figures of light pass by, The mighty light of ten thousand suns, Challenges infinity and is soon gone. Night time, to some a brief interlude,
To others the fear of solitude. Brave Helios wake up your steeds,
Bring the warmth the countryside needs."

The Moody Blues have a very odd position in the pantheon of prog history. Despite seven very strong albums in the late sixties and early seventies, and the undoubted claim of Days Of Future Passed as the first true prog album, they are rarely lauded today in the way I feel their pedigree should warrant. While many of their contemporaries still gain countless column inches forty years on, it is rare to read a retrospective of their early career in the same way you might encounter Yes, King Crimson or many others who emerged around the same time. Perhaps this is because, for a while anyway, The Moodies crossed over and enjoyed success in the mainstream, all but abandoning their progressive roots altogether. However, they were not alone in that regard, and I for one will continue to champion their myriad virtues in this humble blog.

In previous reviews of albums by The Moody Blues, I have described how I was effectively made caretaker for a friend's record collection for an extended period, and that this weighty LP box contained a full set of the classic Moodies first seven albums. I should explain. for any pedants reading this, that I am discounting the very first Moodies album as an unspectacular (but nonetheless, very successful) unremarkable 'beat combo' offering in the same manner as Genesis fans (which incidentally includes me) discount From Genesis To Revelation, seeing Trespass as the first real Genesis album.

The cover was reminiscent of a film soundtrack, and, from my youthful perspective, bore no prog credentials whatsoever. The fact that it was their first album proper with their new line up, so soon after the pedestrian Go Now, didn't particularly excite me either. Of course, like the rest of the Western world I was familiar with Nights In White Satin, although at the time, only knowing it as a single, I probably saw it as fairly MOR; undoubtedly a good pop song but nothing special.

Thus it became one of many albums which I didn't fully comprehend or appreciate until it occupied one side of a C90 cassette, and I was playing it on a Sony Walkman on one of the interminably long coach trips I had to take between Redruth and Glasgow.

It was definitely one of those "this-is supposed-to-be-a-classic-although-I doubt-it" begrudging listens. With fourteen hours ahead of me, I had a lot of cassettes to divert me and I knew that I better get it over and done with.

Were I to review that first full run through giving my nineteen year old response, this would be short and grumpy review. It is only fair to superimpose my more mature, gently greying view, all these years on.

The album begins very softly with an almost imperceptible reverberating percussion which builds to a climax introducing a full orchestra. As a nineteen year old, I would have groaned and thought, 'yup; piss poor soundtrack nonsense'. Now I am old enough and wise enough to realise what incredible new ground The Moodies were making with Days Of Future Passed. Decca had seen sufficient potential in them to bestow free reigh of all the latest technologies, along with a full orchestra and a seemingly bottomless budget. This was 1967; pop/rock bands playing with orchestras on a concept album was new, completely untried. Pop bands did play along with orchestras for TV specials for the masses, but this was something different.

The delivery of the opening spoken verse (see top of this review) indicates just how different this was. With the benefit of hindsight, it is easy to reference future Moodies releases which would also use a spoken opening, as well as future borrowings of this device by other prog bands (both Tommy and Quadophrenia both use the overture device as witnessed here, for example), but at the time, you would have to ask; just who was their audience? This wouldn't have appealed to a pop audience, surely? Nor the classical audience either, as it was a bit too far out there for the 'straights'.

Dawn Is A Feeling has a curious blend of classic sixties pop sensibilities in the chorus, blended with a more sophisticated drama in the verses. Where, on a traditional prog album , you might expect to hear a mellotron or keyboard solo, to hear the mellotron accompanied with a full orchestra is a strange thing first time around, a huge sound, and one which must have caused much scratching of heads by the 'straights' and much excited stroking of chins by aspiring progsters.

The Morning again has much of the standard pop whimsy which would have been commonplace amongst specifically their pop contemporaries, but the chorus introduces swathes of mellotron and vocal harmonies. The orchestral accompaniment can jar occasionally and date the music very firmly as a sixties oddity.

Lunch Break is probably the greatest casualty of this on the album: the first half sounds like the soundtrack for a terrible Peter Sellers film from that period. However, the second half of the track introduces Jefferson Airplane type keyboard effects and frankly wonderful harmonies. At three minutes fifty, the band collectively take off on a remarkable guitar and bass frenzy; very Byrds-like. Suddenly it is not difficult to imagine this being played at the Roundhouse in London admist swirling light displays just after The Pink Floyd have finished their set without it sounding anything other than perfectly suited to its surroundings.

The prog credentials are heightened further with The Afternoon. The mellotron here is as effective as anything on In The Court Of The Crimson King. There is an effortlessness by which the band switches between prog passages, orchestral arrangements and a pop based chorus which is quite unique. I defy anyone currently lumping The Moodies into the average prog bracket to retain that view after listening to The Afternoon.

Without getting caught up in the actual comparative chronology of Days Of Future Passed and Sgt Pepper, or indeed any other 1967 album claiming to be the first to be labelled as prog, I strongly believe that the former has to be the stronger contender, based if nothing else on the large number of prog motifs which became the norm on later albums by most of the the classic prog bands in the seventies.

The Evening ( like the rest of the album) does a very credible job of creating an atmosphere relative to the title of the song and the concept of the album as a whole. Its probably true to say that the Eastern inflections used here are not as successful as those Mr Harrison used on Sgt Pepper. This is remedied, at least in part, by the space-rock chorusing in the middle section of the song and the sublime set up at the end of the track for what is arguably the highpoint of the album.

Although I had heard Nights In White Satin a hundred times before, hearing it for the first time in the context of the album is, dare I say it, akin to a religious experience. I cannot hear it now as the climax to the album without a tear in my eye. On one level it is a classic pop song whilst on another it is a brilliant fusion of all what was emerging as prog at the time: mellotrons, classical leanings, a flute solo, a timeless concept and an excellent vocal performance.

I urge you to to put any prejudices to one side, put the album on, select track one, put on some headphones, turn the volume up as high as you can bear, close your eyes, lie back and be amazed.

The spoken finale is suitably cinematic, emotionally intense and absolutely worthy of its classic groundbreaking status. Possibly the misunderstood album in prog.

Review of The Moody Blues' In Search Of The Lost Chord

Released 1968

"Timothy Leary's dead. No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in. Timothy Leary's dead. No, no, no, no, He's outside looking in. He'll fly his astral plane, Takes you trips around the bay, Brings you back the same day, Timothy Leary. Timothy Leary".

This is another album which, although I first encountered it a couple of years before, I didn't fully appreciate until it it was on one side of a C90, (I think the flip side was On The Threshold Of A Dream) and playing in the background whilst studying in Glasgow.

Before fully falling under the spell of The Moodies, I was hooked on their sleeve designs. I've mentioned in previous postings that I was long term caretaker to a friends box of vinyl. This contained an almost complete set of the 'classic' era ie: prior to Patrick Moraz joining them, fresh from Yes. There were very few of their contemporaries who could out prog The Moody Blues during this period. On many levels, they were in a league of their own when it came to full-blown concept albums; terrific artwork, lyrics that rivalled Jon Anderson's in terms of outright unintelligibility, scope of ambition and in terms of progression in its truest form. Although often scoffed at by many, The Moody Blues did a huge amount to actually 'progress' the pop/rock music form between 1967 and 1972/3 in particular. Certainly more than they are usually given credit for.

I consider the artwork for this record to be one of the defining icons of the classic psychedelic prog era. Anyone dabbling in Eastern Philosophies or transcendental meditation for it's own sake - and that accounts for a significant number of students, especially in the late sixties and early seventies will have been drawn both by the artwork and the sentiment expressed by the album's cunning title. It may all be seriously daft and utterly up itself, but why not? If it's accomplished, which I believe it is, then ultimately it will stand the test of time and gain respect, at least amongst us sad prog rock musos.

Like several of The Moodies albums of this era, it kicks off with a manic spoken passage. In this case, there is the brief strumming of a harp, a sustained mellotron chord growing more aggressive as the narrator speech descends into diabolical laughter. Ride My See Saw is played by the band in concert to this day, 200 years later. Taken by itself, it could be mistaken for a classic single by any of their contemporaries. I personally hear a lot of The Yardbirds in this. As with the rest of the album - and many from The Moodies collection - the production on the vocal is horribly dated and takes some getting used to.

This morphs into Dr Livingstone, I Presume. The esteemed Doctor-explorer is used figuratively: after all the album is about searching in all its manifest ways. Grand harmonies, very Ringo-like drumming (that's a compliment, by the why). The guitar solo is very Roger McGuinn; again another compliment. So far, largely pop orientated.

House Of Four Doors, Part 1, is the album's first real high point with the mellotron taking a more important role. The tapping tambourine ties it back firmly to the sixties, while the use of sound effects, the flute passages, the numerous changes in tempo and the lush harpsichord, all lean firmly towards a very progressive new decade. The emphatic orchestral break at around three minutes in, is as effective a progressive interlude as anything Yes or early King Crimson achieved a year or two later.

Legend Of A Mind 'borrows' very heavily from George Harrison eastern influence on The Beatles. Justin Hayward plays the sitar, mimics Lennon's vocal delivery whilst espousing the virtues of every one's favourite pharmacist, Timothy Leary.

The gorgeous second part of the last but one track, remains bewitchingly beautiful. As a quick aside, listening to an album whilst reviewing it is not to be recommended. I am an unashamed sentimentalist who often wells up when confronted with much of the masterful moments I am proud to listen to.

Voices In The Sky may be a (relatively) well known pop single, but both as part of the album and as a stand alone track, it is one of the earliest examples of The Moodies excellent knack for a simple timeless classic.

Again, The Best Way To Travel owes a large debt to The Beatles, although, and this may be somewhat contentious, it succeeds for me as pure prog, where John, Paul, George and Ringo, in my humble opinion held back in this regard.

The last four tracks of the album up the prog anti further, with more flute, layer upon layer of mellotron, harps, sitars and more sound effects. It would be very difficult for Barclay James Harvest - the eternally tagged 'Poor Man's Moody Blues' - to defend their protestations that they weren't blatantly copying harmonic structures and mellotron motifs wholesale from TMB on the basis of this side of vinyl.

The Word (unsurprisingly, perhaps) is another spoken word passage is straight out of the book of pretentious album structures. Not a track you'd listen to in the company of anyone who owns anything by Dido, Coldplay or Travis, for sure.

Om is pretty much what you'd expect from a late sixties album by The Moody Blues. It does fall apart in the middle and it is the only part of the record where you'd be forgiven for looking at your watch or peering over your shoulder in shame. Bless them.

As a whole, it is a really very good record. I am willing to forgive them the odd indulgence. Or three.

Review of King Crimson's In The Court Of The Crimson King

Released 1969

"The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king"

I seem to begin so many reviews with a confession for a very simple reason: my tastes have changed, often dramatically over the years. What I find interesting is that the change is always one way: I've yet come across an album which I once adored and now abhor. Yet there are so many times when I've purchased an album with high expectations only to be crushed with disappointment, often to the point where there has then been a new addition to the local second hand record shop's bargain box within twenty four hours of the original purchase. Needless to say, King Crimson's ground-breaking debut album falls very squarely into this well populated category.

I couldn't pick up a music magazine or music book without being reminded from every quarter that In The Court Of The Crimson King was one of the most important albums of the prog rock genre, in all likelihood the very first album to be labelled as such.

Likewise, there always seemed to be a copy of Barry Godber's iconic pink and blue screaming face peering out from amongst the twenty seven copies of 10cc's Greatest Hits and 461 Ocean Boulevard in the seond hand boxes.

It was hard not to be seduced by the sleeve; the front back and gate fold all drawing any self-respecting prog fan desperate to familiarise himself with the finest proponents of the foundations of prog.

There were also a few serious prog nerds in the halls of residents at the University of Glasgow. These guys were conversant with bands like Gentle Giant, Family, Pavlovs Dog and The Mahavishnu Orchestra; bands with an almost mystical unobtainability which made me coo pathetically in admiration. Mind you, they didn't have girlfriends. However, they would nod wisely, tugging their wispy beards and roll up the sleeves of their jumpers in enthusiasm at the mention of ITCOTCK. I had to see what the fuss was all about.

After exactly thirty seconds of mostly nothing, a sax and powerful guitar screams out the instantly recognisable riff of 21st Century Schizoid Man. The heavily distorted vocals, furious drumming veers from hard rock to more jazz influenced sections with the sax given at least equal time as the discordant guitar. The guitar solo was unlike anything I had heard before and seemed far removed from any form of rock I was familiar with. I looked at the year of release and was startled by the weirdness and strength for 1969. I could see why it must have caused a stir at the time of release. The band was incredibly tight; the drumming was outrageously precise. This was very strange but oddly hypnotic. Perhaps not what I expected, but worth a second listen at least.

On my first listen, from that point on, it all fell apart. I Talk To The Wind was a soft and directionless piece of whimsy, totally at odds with the preceding song and so obviously rooted in the late sixties, that I had to wonder if the two songs were by the same band. I thought it was terrible and willed it to stop.

Again, first time around Epitaph seemed a weak and inconsequential effort. I wasn't much fonder of Moonchild. I could see similarities with The Moody Blues and perhaps Barclay James Harvest, but all seemed very weak and not at all inspirational. The title track had it's moments, but seemed to wander on forever. As the needle ran off the into the centre groove, I removed the LP and put it back on the shelf, sneering at the gulf between its reputation and my nineteen year old opinion of it. Very soon afterwards, it too joined the many copies of 461 Ocean Boulevard and 10cc's Greatest Hits in the local second hand shop.

It would be unfair to end the review there.

I have of course revisited the album and am astonished by what I now see as one of the bedrocks of my record collection. But why do I see it differently? Simply being several years older is part of the reason. I can now contextualise the album in ways I couldn't when I was nineteen. I overlooked many things then: the adorable vocal of Greg Lake, the lush mellotron; in many ways unsurpassed since, the skill of the musicians in producing something genuinely unique which paved a path followed and exploited by others and above all the beauty of the title track. When I listened to this once more after a space of almost twenty years, I couldn't understand how I had missed this gem. I can only reason that as a teenager, my ability to appreciate more the subtle nuances of music weren't fully developed.

To be able to revisit a piece of work after two decades and find it so compelling is an incredible experience and a privilege. If I Talk To The Wind was absent, this would be a strong contender for a top five album for me.

Review of The Moody Blues' On The Threshold Of A Dream

Released 1969

"Now you know how nice it feels,
Scatter good seed in the fields.
Life's ours for the making,
Eternity's waiting, waiting, for you and me".

As a teenager, I lived in close proximity to the largest RNAS Helicopter Station in Europe. Most of the pilots who visited the local pub where I had a summer job conformed to type; upper-class misogynist robots usually with the personality of a pot plant. However, one chap only a year or two older than me, whose name eludes me, was a walking contradiction; he had the naval haircut and uniform but was a hippy at heart, regularly smoking non-naval issue doobies just beyond the olfactory reach of his peers. Whilst on duty he entrusted me with a box of his beloved vinyl. Thus I was exposed to several bands for the first time, most of them with some merit. Central to this collection was the first six albums by The Moody Blues.

These were all original editions with some of the most elaborate prog rock sleeves ever produced. I will scatter reviews of the remaining five albums as this blog progresses, choosing though to start not chronologically, but with the one, which at the time struck me as the most eccentric and endearing, and this was against some very stiff competition.

What a bizarre bunch The Moody Blues were; transmogrifying from a mainstream sixties pop band into one of the first purveyors of experimental prog almost overnight. I knew that The Days Of Future Passed was often cited as one of the leading contenders for the very first prog album. Whether or not that is true is redundant, as over the course of their next five albums in particular they pushed the envelope of convention more than most and for which they are given surprisingly little credit, being accused without too much fear of contradiction as being the most pretentious band of their ilk. Even when it didn't work - which could be quite often - they had to be applauded for their bravery.

Like all of their earlier work, On The Threshold Of A Dream suffers from claustrophobic production especially around the vocals. A terrible shame this, as both Justin Hayward's lead vocal and their harmonies are, in my humble opinion, woefully underrated. In The Beginning, which opens the album, is very much of it's time; featuring Justin Hayward's whacked-out stoner cod philosophical musings interrupted by a, gasp, computer. No way, man! Far out!

Even in the midst of a concept album, The Moody Blues could be relied upon for their ear for a good tune enabling them to cross over and gain frequent success in the singles charts. Dear Diary works both as a strong single and as an integral part of the central characters main journey. The spoken diary entry at the end is deliciously daft. In fact, most of the tracks, unusually for a concept album, stand up surprisingly well on their own.

Flicking through the gate fold sleeve's inner booklet, there is a vague story; something about space travel and the dawning of consciousness weaved through beautifully obtuse artwork portraying goodness only knows what. The hysterically hirsute band photography must be eternally embarrassing to them now.

There is a real sense that this is an album of the sixties and, whilst it is indisputably a prog record, it is a world away from say Genesis' Trepass made within the next twelve months but which is an album of the seventies. For example, the gorgeous Never Comes A Day is underpinned with a harmonica which tends to harken back to their days as a beat band, whilst the use of the mellotron on the other hand pulls it forward into the seventies. I am certainly generalising, but I found it fascinating that this sits so neatly on the cusp of the decade change.

Acoustic guitars and flutes are the order of the day, with electric guitars taking a secondary role. Are You Sitting Comfortably? is as accomplished a piece of pastoral English-ness as anything Genesis are so often revered for.

The spoken words of The Dream introduce the final four track suite of the album. Such a feature must have been a revelation at the time. Hardly exciting or likely to get the pulse racing, but decidedly different. The Voyage on the other hand, is awash with vast orchestral mellotron which leaps above the sub-standard production as a beacon of brilliance, stupendously clever and outrageously daring in it's day.

Invariably I listen to the album I am reviewing, doing my utmost to try to capture the feeling of playing it for the first time, at present, this is approximately a quarter of a century ago. Almost always it is exceedingly difficult, as the process forces a simultaneous contemporary reappraisal, and separating the two can be challenging. Regardless, the experience of replaying On The Threshold Of A Dream twenty odd years on today has just reaffirmed it's status as a marvellous, marvellous record which I'd encourage anyone unfamiliar with their work to acquaint themselves with.

Review of Marillion's Fugazi

Released 1984

"The thief of baghdad hides in islingtown now, praying
deportation for his sacred cow. A legacy of romance from a twilight world. The dowry of a relative mystery girl."

Having spent many hours rooting around in second hand record shops for albums released when I was but a child, it was something of a novelty to look forwards to Marillion's second album hitting the shops. Marillion were despised and ridiculed by the mainstream music press, famously derided as unoriginal Genesis wannabees with little talent beyond mimicry. However Script For a Jester's Tear sold very well, leading to their lengthy residency at the Marquee Club and a strong reputation as a formidable (if not overtly pretentious) live band on the wider circuit. Opening the Reading Festival in 1983 with a circa twenty minute version of the (at the time) unreleased Grendel, a vast sprawling epic with a huge nod to Supper's Ready, displayed levels of indulgence not seen for many years on stage.

It was highly enjoyable to follow current exponents of prog rock sensibilities in the face of bemusement from the majority of my contemporaries.

The review of Fugazi in Kerrang! wasn't as emphatic as their first album. In fact it wasn't particularly kind at all, quoting 'difficult second album syndrome' and questioning their subsequent appeal and staying power. I saw this as puff and bluster: a band couldn't fall so awfully from grace in the course of a couple of years and a couple of albums, surely.

I was impressed that the same artist had been employed for the cover of this second album providing a strong sense of continuity; there was a theme of isolation common to both albums - the 'bed-sit' land referred to in Chelsea Monday on the first album was present once more. A bedraggled figure with more than a passing resemblance to Fish lay sprawled on a bed amidst much chaotic detritus. The jesters outfit was in evidence, as were other familiar motifs: the rainbow and the crow. LP's by Pink Floyd and Peter Hammill lay scattered on the floor as unambiguous acknowledgements of the tortured soul's heritage. This wasn't going to be a fun record clearly.

Having recently seen Apocalypse Now, I was impressed by the (almost) direct lifting of part of the lyric of Assassing from the film. I was less impressed by the drum sound; it was very much rooted in the general trend of more popular music in the mid-eighties; the drums were bought much further forward in the mix and much less subtle than I would have expected. Hmmm, a rocky start.

I wasn't taken too much by the next two tracks either. Both were very light, had pop inflections being quite insubstantial and very much at odds with much of the first album. The primary instrument in evidence was Fish's voice. His cynical invective was taking on the role of the doomed adolescent poet, very much the tragic jester.

Having spent most of this first listen wearing an unfortunate frown, I realised with Emerald Lies and She Chameleon that something was creeping up on me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. There was a 'coldness' and a clarity to the production that was in perfect harmony to the anguish of Fish's words. Whereas the first album was often quite lush and ornate, there was pain and pity echoed by a more sparse but symphonic guitar sound; providing a terrible tapestry of aching and pleading, which slowly drew me in.

This was an album which you would switch off if your parents walked in; so personal and indulgent and self pitying and yet so tangibly desperate and brilliant in it's execution, you couldn't possibly justify or identify with it's pomposity and misery. And yet, to hide beneath the headphones, safe from the world, wallowing in it utterly, was, what we now call a guilty pleasure.